The Cheviot Hills
by Jennifer
Summary: An old friend passes on, and is mourned...


The Cheviot Hills

A Fanfic by Jennifer

Now, before I begin this one, several warnings are in order. First and foremost…this is a MAJOR weepie. Secondly, this has to do with the death of, and mourning for, an established and beloved character. This fanfic drove my friend Alan to call me a "murderer". A little explanation is therefore in order. Though I'm posting this now, I actually wrote this in 1996, shortly after the TVM, around the same time I wrote "The Blossom", and shortly after hearing of the death of Jon Pertwee. It got me to thinking that what we all hope for most is to live a long life and a full one, and to be well-loved and well-remembered by those we leave behind in this life. So I wrote this. Please take it in the spirit it's meant. Also remember I wrote this before I knew of any book continuity whatsoever, and I mainly stick with "series and TVM only" canon anyway. Hope you like it…

The mountain range that divided England from Scotland was shrouded in gray fog, blending seamlessly with the slate sky. Still, they were visible, though they stood miles away and were mist-covered. They stood, the Cheviot Hills, as they had stood for millenia, looking down upon the English and the Scottish. They had seen both civilizations wage war and make peace against one another; they had seen their people change from violent warmongers to respected, civilized nations. This day, they would witness, from far away, the laying to rest of one who had proudly laid claim to both lands and cultures. 

The Doctor liked to think that the Cheviot Hills marked and noted the passing of this one man, despite the fact that they had seen millions of people live and die. Yes, he thought, it's only natural that we lay him where they can see him. He loved both countries so much…the Hills will take care of their own. 

In this, his eighth incarnation, the Doctor cut quite a figure on the hillside with his long tawny hair blowing out behind him. Anyone passing by might have thought they saw Heathcliff sprung to life from the pages of Wuthering Heights. But the Doctor's mind wasn't on how he looked, as he gazed down at the stone church in the valley with its peaceful graveyard and the people milling around the church's entrance. 

When are they going to get here? he wondered. It will be time to start soon, and I can't imagine the service going forth without all of us…well, all of us who had worked with him. We…we did have so many memories together, didn't we?…

Suddenly, his vision blurred. He'd been so busy these past few days with helping make arrangements and comforting Jonathan that he hadn't let himself think back on the past, or on his own loss. Trying to keep his composure, he turned his gaze back to the Cheviot Hills.

Their mien of ageless calm and acceptance soothed his overwrought mind. We understand, they seemed to say. We have taken countless dead into our arms and bid Godspeed to their souls. We will watch over the resting place of your friend, as noble a man and as brave a warrior as any from either of our countries. 

"They never forget," said a Scottish-accented voice.

A Scottish accent would not be out of place here, but the Doctor knew immediately which Scottish accent this was. He turned to face his seventh incarnation.

Immediately, his previous self drew back, staring with wide gray eyes as he whispered, "…_Dad?_"

"No," the Eighth replied with a slight smile. "But I do look like him now, don't I? At least as he looked in his first body. Always hoped I might, one of these regenerations…"

The two Doctors gripped each others' arms in greeting. Then, suddenly, impulsively, they threw their arms around each other, silently acknowledging their kinship and their shared grief.

Doctor Seven extricated himself. "Right…no time for that sort of thing now…" he muttered uneasily. "The others?"

"I imagine they'll be here soon," Doctor Eight mused, a slight frown of concern on his handsome face.

"I…I'm rather surprised the Time Lords allowed this," Doctor Seven allowed.

His future self smiled slightly. "Our new Lord President is a decent sort," he explained. "He was the one who contacted me, you know. He let me know that a dear friend of mine was very ill and…" his voice faltered but he continued, "…not expected to survive. I must have ripped the fabric of Time trying to get the Tardis here fast enough. I did make it in time, though…he lasted about three days after my arrival. He was pleased to see me, you know…pleased about my regeneration and all that…" his voice trailed off.

"I…I did tell him he was going to die in bed," the Seventh faltered. "Did he…was he in pain? What was it, anyway?"

"Heart," the Eighth answered. "Heart failure…a broken heart…either way. I didn't leave his side a moment, nor did his son, or his son's fiancee. He got delirious at times…I heard him mutter things like 'expensive to kill, those Cybermen' and 'chap with wings…five rounds rapid'." Both Doctors could not suppress a slight laugh. "But most of the time, he was lucid, and at peace. It was about two nights ago that he finally went. His last request was that all of us who had known and worked with him come to say goodbye. Then he started to sink…and just as we thought it was all over, he opened his eyes and whispered, 'Doris?' And he looked so happy at that moment, Seven…and I swear I felt as if someone else were there.

"And then…then he was gone…" The Doctor's eyes were once again on the Cheviot Hills. He didn't think he could stand to look at the Seventh's face just then. "I got hold of the President…he was very sympathetic, asked if there was anything he could do to help. I told him about the Brigadier's last request, and he allowed that since it was a last request, he could bend the laws of Time just a bit to bring us. Not all of us, just those of us who worked with him…One didn't really meet him except for our little Death Zone get-together, and Six never had any real dealings with him. So it's just going to be Two, Three, Four, Five, you, and me."

"And here they come now," Seven answered, pointing to the figures heading up the slope.

Surprisingly, most of the figures were not wearing their usual costumes. Most jarringly of all, the tall, curly-haired figure was scarfless, and had foregone his usual long brown coat for a simple and somber black jacket, shirt and trousers. The handsome young man who walked beside him, deep in conversation with him, was also clad in sober black, which contrasted with his fair hair and gave him something of the look of a young vicar. 

The other two did wear most of their usual raiment, but the silver-haired aristocrat had exchanged his white ruffled shirt for a black one, and the short, dark-haired, comical-looking chap wore stiff black trousers instead of his usual checkered ones. 

"Good thing Six wasn't here, at that," Seven muttered, regarding his own dark mourning outfit and his future self's. "Wouldn't have been able to recognize him in black."

They noted how the Second walked with a stiff, pained step, lagging behind the others. "I imagine he'll take this very hard," Seven mused. "He was the first of us to have known him, after all."

The third Doctor slowed his steps so that he was walking beside his previous self, gently putting a fraternal arm around his shoulders. All quarrels seemed to be forgotten, on this of all days.

Finally, the small band reached the two standing on the slope. An awkward silence ensued…as if by postponing conversation, they could postpone having to face the reason they were here.

"Well…here we are," Doctor Five finally stated, with a nervous little smile. 

"My Lord…" Doctor Three murmured, looking at his eighth self.

"Oh yes," the Eighth answered with a slight smile, "I do look like Dad. After all, we all know how Gallifreyan genetics work, don't we? Your chromosomes tumble around during regeneration and you end up with the features of long-ago ancestors…Look at you, for that matter," addressing the Fifth. "Mother's blond hair and delicate features in a masculine face."

Doctor Five managed to sound almost cheerful as he answered. "At any rate, it's good to see the two latest models. For that matter," turning to his previous self, "it's good to finally come face to face with you…you were absent from our little Death Zone family reunion."

"Good to see my looks are going to improve, Fiver," replied the Fourth. "Not that they could get worse, I suppose."

"_Fiver? _If I'm Fiver, does that make you Hazel-rah?"

"No…" the tall Doctor mused, indicating his hair, "…Bigwig."

"It was in your time that I finally got around to reading _Watership Down_, wasn't it?" Fiver continued. Somewhere inside, he knew they were all chattering on to avoid the inevitable, but he couldn't help it. 

"Oh, yes," the Fourth replied, and then continued speaking, very quickly and very cheerfully. "Went on quite the Lapine kick. Drove Sarah Jane nearly crazy. She thought it was harmless enough when I started referring to home cooking as 'flay-rah' and to Cybermen and Daleks as 'elil', but she started worrying when I started referring to deceased friends and loved ones as having…" 

His voice failed and he looked away. Then with a deep breath, he finished the sentence, "…as having 'stopped running'."

His wide blue eyes swam as he bit his lip, looking around at his other selves with the look of a child that has been suddenly and unexpectedly struck.

"B-brave heart, Bigwig…" Fiver tried to reassure, through a rapidly thickening lump in his throat. 

"How can this be _possible?_" Doctor Two suddenly cried out…the first words he'd spoken since they'd congregated on the hillside. _"This is the Brigadier!"_

They looked at him sympathetically. He was right…despite the fact that they knew all mortal beings must die, despite their long experience with Earthers whose lives were shorter than theirs, they had somehow fixed the image of their friend as immortal, indestructible.

"We mustn't give way," the Eighth cut in. "Not now. Jonathan…his son…is depending on us, and there are old friends to greet…old friends who are grieving as much as we are."

"I must tell you all," Seven continued, "Eight and I can both vouch for this…it's almost better this way. His soul's gone to join his heart. He just wasn't the same since he lost Doris. I remember when she died…poor Alastair…saw his dearest friends fall in battle beside him and bore it, but when Doris died I didn't think he'd ever stop crying. And every time after that, it was as though a little more of his strength and spirit were gone…being weaned away from Earth. Maybe that was the time to mourn him, after all."

"Strange," the Second muttered, having regained his own composure. "To think that a man like the Brigadier could be dismantled from the inside, a man who's faced enemies from this world and beyond. To think that the death of one woman could do what Daleks, Cybermen, and Yeti couldn't."

"It can," Eight answered. "…And I think we all know that."

The others looked at him in shock. Apparently, this latest incarnation was beginning to tread paths of memory that they had always trod very, very carefully indeed.

"Shall we head to the church?" Doctor Three asked hastily, anxious to steer conversation and memory elsewhere.

They started down the slope to the church. "St. Michael's," the Fourth commented. "He liked to bring us here sometimes."

"And you, I remember," Fiver answered, "liked to put jelly babies in the offering plate."

"Reverend MacMillan _requested_ them, remember?" the tall, curly-haired Doctor riposted. "What, you think vicars don't have the occasional sweet tooth?"

"St. Michael," the Third continued. "Only fitting…Michael, the archangel, the protector, the warrior."

Just looking at the church gave the Eighth a degree of comfort. Though he had spiritual beliefs, he'd never tried to shoehorn them into any mold, believing instead in Rudyard Kipling's quote, "Many roads thou hast fashioned…all of them lead to the Light." And even if (though he wasn't telling) there were historical truths as well as spiritual ones to Christianity, they did not conflict with the spiritual truths of other faiths. He'd always enjoyed coming here with the Brigadier, since Reverend MacMillan was a forward-thinking clergyman who believed much the same things. He had only to look at his other selves to know that they felt the same way on looking at St. Michael's.

And, as he'd predicted, there were many others to greet. There was Brigadier Winifred Bambera, on the arm of her husband, a man who'd adapted well to twentieth-century living but who still had the air of castles and dragons about him, an air which made passersby wonder what made this man stand out so. Winifred's face was shadowed with grief for the man she'd admired as an officer and respected as a friend. She greeted the Seventh warmly and was glad to be introduced to the other Doctors. 

There were Benton and Yates and their families, and Liz Shaw with hers, all of whom had come great distances to pay final respects to the man with whom they'd worked so closely, who'd given them their start in their careers. 

And there was a small, blonde woman now in her late forties but still pretty of face and gentle of demeanor, a woman who, on seeing Doctor Three, flung herself into his arms and held on as if she'd never let go. And the third Doctor hugged Josephine Grant Jones back with equal fierceness, comforting her in her grief for the man who had, in his gruff and military way, been fatherly to her. He then shook hands with Clifford Jones, as Jo greeted Doctor Two affectionately and welcomed the equally affectionate greetings of the other Doctors.

No sooner was that greeting finished than another woman stepped forward, causing both the Third and Fourth Doctors to exclaim with delight. Sarah Jane Smith-Roberts was here with her husband Justin, a fellow journalist with whom she had teamed to write many prize-winning pieces that the Doctors had followed with pride. 

Lastly, there was Jonathan Lethbridge-Stewart, as strong and handsome as his father had been in his prime, although burdened heavily with grief. The late son of a late marriage, he had been his father's pride and joy, so much that he'd received a name meaning "gift of God." Beside him stood his fiancee, Emily, who had been the daughter Alastair had never had, in affection if not yet in law. Jonathan's grief was clear testimony against the "Great Santini" stereotype of the strict military father…they had always been the best of chums, he and Alastair.

After greeting the other Doctors, he took the Eighth aside. "Doctor, I can't tell you how much of a help you've been these last few days…how much it's meant to me," he told his friend. 

"It's nothing…"

"It is _not_," Jonathan replied firmly. "I can plainly say that I don't know how I would have gotten through these past few days if not for you. I've been a touch selfish, perhaps…no, I have," he stated as the Doctor tried to deny it. "It can't have been easy for you, these past days, being the strong one for _us._"

"Jonathan, you're my friend," the Doctor reassured. "I know how it feels to lose a father…any parent…you might just as well be a little kid." His eyes grew distant, as if looking on a long-ago shower of brilliant meteors. "It's been a comfort to me to be able to help you."

"If there's any way…" Jonathan murmured, then choked up. "Thank you…thank you so much for all you've done…I'll pay it back somehow, I promise."

"No need," the Doctor affirmed, gripping Jonathan's arms.

"We're ready to start," the red-eyed young man informed him.

The crowd filed into the church…which, within a matter of minutes, was packed to the rafters. Some people the Doctors recognized from UNIT. Others had known Alastair in his childhood, while still others were people from Alastair's community, the poor that he had aided, the people who had been ill and had been visited and comforted by him and Doris. The organ was softly and reverently playing "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring," a particular favorite of the old military man's. On the altar stood Reverend Josiah MacMillan, who'd known Alastair since boyhood, and was well acquainted with the Brigadier's alien friend in all his incarnations. He caught the eye of the Doctors and smiled reassuringly. 

And presently, the six uniformed men marched down the nave of the church, bearing by its brass handles the simple, unadorned box of polished wood.

The Doctor's previous incarnations, sitting beside him in the front pew, individually drew deep breaths, or brought a hand to a mouth, or simply looked away. Not having been at the deathbed, they had somehow tried to believe that it just wasn't true. But seeing the casket brought home the unavoidable truth: Brigadier Alastair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart was dead. Knowing that this day would come did not make this realization any easier. 

The first hymn (appropriately enough "Onward, Christian Soldiers") was sung and the initial prayers said. Reverend MacMillan stepped up to the pulpit and began his eulogy. In his usual commanding yet gentle voice (only slightly touched with a Scottish accent) he assured the mourners of God's love for His children and the special place in His heaven for the brave. "For brave souls such as our Alastair, who defended the country and the Earth he loved against enemies of this world…and beyond it…with some help," as his warm eyes rested on the Doctors. 

"Yet, although Alastair was a military man, he was not a man of war. No one understood more than he did the cruelty of senseless violence and the need for peace. It was he who urged his counterparts of other nations to lay down arms and band together against their common enemies. It was he who spoke out against persecution and prejudice in his home community. And it was he who spoke most fervently of the day when we of Earth would lay down all our arms, leaving war as an ancient tale of an old time. 

"For Alastair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart understood a simple truth, one so easy to understand, yet, unfortunately, understood by too few on this Earth. It is simply that no matter our skin color, our faith, our country or even," his gentle gaze rested once more on the Doctors, "our home world...we are all God's children and creations. We all begin as such, despite the choices we may make in our later lives, and all deserve the dignity and respect due us as such. And Alastair understood this, and lived his life by it. 

"And so, my brothers and sisters, let us pray for the soul of Alastair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart, let us all do our best to live as he did, and let us all do what we can to ensure that the day he spoke of, the great day of peace, will one day arrive. Amen."

"Amen," the congregation repeated. 

The Eighth Doctor looked over to Jonathan sitting next to him and gave his arm an encouraging pat. Taking a deep breath, Jonathan stood and made his way to the altar. 

Jonathan's own eulogy touched not on his father's military career, but on Alastair the man: the loving husband and supportive father, the man who had tirelessly worked to aid the sick and the poor, the man whom parents had relied on to help them talk sense into the heads of wayward sons and daughters. The man who always had words and deeds of comfort for the despairing, lightening the burden on their hearts. " 'Whatsoever you do to the least of these, that you do unto Me,'" Jonathan quoted in a voice that trembled only slightly. "My father had an old sampler of that quote in his study. He always said that all the heart of true faith lay in those words. I can honestly say that Dad did his best to live by them.

"Dad always tried," Jonathan continued, his eyes misting but his voice growing clearer and more direct, "to hide his good deeds under a bushel; he wanted everyone to think that people jumped and trembled at the very sound of his voice. He always tried so hard to mask the fact that his gruff, stiff-upper-lip mannerisms hid a heart as wide as the sea. Not very well, though...we all saw through his bluster and gruffness easily, as my mum and I did.

"And so, I can say, that with the passing of Alastair Lethbridge-Stewart, many of us are the poorer...but I can also say with certainty that if anyone is more certain of reward, it is my beloved father."

Jonathan's voice caught briefly, and he looked away, eyes swimming. Then, regaining his composure, he stepped off the altar and sat down in the front pew once more.

"Well done, Jonathan," the Eighth whispered. The other Doctors also whispered their approval.

"He was the best," Jonathan whispered brokenly, an arm around Emily, "the very, very best there was in this world."

"We all knew that long before you were a twinkle in his eye," the Third answered, bringing a slight smile to the bereaved son's face.

The ceremony continued, with the Doctors keeping their own composure as best they could. But as the pallbearers were ready to bear the coffin out of the church, a lone bagpiper walked down the nave of the church. He turned to face the congregation, lifted the pipes, and began to slowly and reverently play "Amazing Grace."

The Eighth lost his breath. He should have remembered...it was custom at a Scottish funeral, and the Brig was part Scottish...he had to keep a hold of himself, he _had_ to...

But the instrument he'd always derided as "a cat being strangled" now sounded painfully, heartrendingly poignant, a sigh from the past and a whisper of all the adventures shared. No eyes were dry in the church...and, in the front pew, the Time Lord contingent wept openly and without shame. 

The last notes of the hymn died, leaving the church in silence broken only by muffled weeping. The pallbearers came forth to the renewed strains of "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring," and bore out the casket, followed by the congregation, the Doctors at the fore, tears still streaming down their faces. The Third once more had his arm around his previous self's shoulders, "fancypants" and "scarecrow" now united in their grief—the Second as the first to have met the Brig, the Third as the one to have worked most closely with him. The Fourth, meanwhile, had provided his own shoulder to "Fiver" in a big-brotherly manner when the younger-looking Doctor had broken down during the playing of  "Amazing Grace". He, however, was silently wishing he'd brought his scarf after all...it was larger and more absorbent than this miniscule handkerchief. 

They silently filed to the small, richly green churchyard, a sorrowful yet peaceful spot. The graveside service commenced and concluded, ending with "I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord; whoso believeth in Me, though he die, yet shall he live, and whoso believeth in Me and liveth shall never die."

The final "Amen" was sounded. The knots of people drifted farther back from the grave, but six remained at the graveside.

The Doctors regained their composure and dried their eyes, then, one and all, they drew from beneath their mourning jackets six identical flowers—yellow roses for friendship. And, one and all, they dropped them into the grave.

Presently, the Eighth spoke words that were familiar to them all, words from the Gallifreyan funeral service:

"Passages of space, receive him. Halls of Time, honor him. Creator of Space and Originator of Time, reward him." He paused, then whispered, "Jirias'lyn, old friend."

Ancient High Gallifreyan has two different words for "goodbye", with the same distinction as the French "adieu" and "au revoir". "Norad" is the word for "goodbye forever," while "jirias'lyn" means "till we meet again". 

The other Doctors understood, and repeated, "Jirias'lyn."

"I'll miss you, you old military twit," Four muttered, the last of his tears drying on his face.

"But he is with Doris now, wherever she is," noted Seven, casting a glance at the older gravesite next to the new one. "Happier, I'm sure, than he was these last few years."

"He had his threescore and ten, and then some," the Third said, an arm still around the Second's shoulders. "May seem short to us, but a good long life for a human."

"True, true," the Second answered with a short sigh, drawing up straight, "and he lived a full one, and a happy one, and had so many to remember him well…did you see that crowd?"

"A long life, a productive one, and not a lonely one," Fiver muttered, his own eyes dry now. "That's all any being can ask."

They nodded. Among them all was the knowledge that they would grieve, but would also accept, as acceptance followed the sharpest sorrow. Their friend, indeed, had gotten everything out of life that anyone could have asked for…no more and no less than he'd put into it himself. Even now, peace was beginning to take the place of pain. Still, they were reluctant to leave the graveside.

"…You know," "Bigwig" said at length, with a hint of his usual smile, "wherever he is, I'm glad he's on my side."

"Giving Michael a hand," the Third answered, "keeping any more renegade angels from trying anything funny, perhaps?"

" 'Chap with horns…five rounds rapid,'" Fiver chuckled.

"No," the Eighth put in with a wide smile, "I know just what he'll do. He'll look the Creator on His throne right in the eye and ask, 'May I inquire, Sir, what You're doing in my seat?'"

They laughed then, the sweet laughter that often comes unexpectedly from grief. And with that laughter, they knew that at last they had the strength to leave their old friend to his rest and his reward.

So slowly, they drew away from the grave, speaking their final goodbyes in silence, content in the knowledge that their friend's final resting place was under the benevolent, watchful, timeless gaze of the Cheviot Hills.


End file.
